Possession
by Nicholas de Vilance
Summary: /English Assignment/ Murphy has one of the strangest and scariest nightmares...one that turns out to be real. /dark themes/


**Possession**

Bad things always happen late at night when the darkness can hide what doesn't want to be seen. A shadow slithered up the cold brick wall all the way to the fifth floor, studio flat in some slum in South Boston. Creeping in through the window, the dark splotch looked into the dark apartment over the bodies of two sleeping Irishmen. Twin brothers Connor and Murphy MacManus slept soundly in their separate beds; their breaths came in sync with each other. It was an interesting sight for the creature of night's old eyes. It was an appealing opportunity to fool with the minds of these human boys.

Thin, spindly, black legs slunk down the molding plaster of the wall below the window, dropping soundlessly to the floor. One bed was closer to the window and the other was closer to the door. Seeing his line of opportunity, the shadow slithered over to Murphy's bed and crawled in a slick heap onto the mattress, scanning the pale skin and dark hair and smooth toned muscle of this man before finding its entrance through a slightly open jaw.

Blue eyes shot open as burning hellfire seeped through the entirety of his form and Murphy choked on something (he couldn't tell what). Out of impulse, his hands shot up to his throat pulling at the invisible hand that was clamped there. He couldn't breathe, as much as he needed to cry out for some sort of help. His brother was still asleep in the bed beside his. "Conn—!" he squeaked, too quiet and strained to do any good for him.

To struggle, one must comprehend what it is that he is struggling against; however in this case the perpetrator was attacking from within. What was this! Murphy twitched and writhed uncontrollably as though something had gripped him by the central nervous system and twisted harshly. The burn never subsided—instead it intensified beyond possibility. Shaking and contracting in pain and horror, the Irishman forced himself to look to his left at his sleeping twin. "C-con—!" he couldn't get past that before suddenly, he blacked out.

* * *

The cracked glass of the windowpane distorted the morning light into sharp rays to penetrate deep into the flat from the eastern sky. Liquid, golden sun poured over Connor's sleeping form up over the blankets and his tanned chest to coax his eyes open. It was grueling task to rouse this particular man, but at last the daytime sun managed to pull him from his sleep. He automatically looked to his right and saw an empty bed. At first, he wasn't sure what that meant—the blackness that was sleep hadn't yet left his mind—but he slowly came to the realization… "Murphy!?" he called, suddenly very apprehensive about his twin's absence. Abruptly, he sat up, prepared to run off to find his sibling—even wearing just his boxer shorts. That was unnecessary, fortunately, because Connor then recognized the lump on the floor.

"What is it?" Murphy mumbled against the pillow and blanket that was strewn haphazardly over his face and body.

"What're ya doin' on the floor, Murph?"

A beat passed before the fallen man moved the bed clothes from his face and scanned his surroundings. Connor suppressed a giggle at his brother's folly. "Must've fallen outta bed," Murphy stated blandly.

"Well, I can easily see that…" As much as this scene should have been entirely amusing (and it _was_), the blond couldn't force away a foreboding feeling that something wasn't right. There seemed to be 

a certain part of his mind that just wasn't working right. Part of him just wouldn't perform the way he wanted it to. "C'mon, get up. We gotta get ta work."

"Right."

With a raised eyebrow, Connor observed as Murphy actually got up to do as he was told. Stubborn Murphy…"I'd rather argue, be difficult and make your life hell" Murphy…there was something else to put Connor off ease. Not that he minded not having to tackle his twin today, it just didn't fit. "Are y'alright?"

"Hm?" Murphy didn't turn, giving the other a wonderful view of that tattoo of the Banishment of Lucifer as it ran down his right shoulder blade. "Aye, I'm fine. Just a bit shaken, I s'pose. I had a strange dream last night."

"What about?"

"I—can't really remember"

"Oh…not at all?"

"No, just drop it!" The sudden malevolence that snuck into that statement struck Connor as odd so he just let it go. Whatever reason Murphy had to be mad, Connor didn't want that anger directed at him.

They dressed quickly and silently, out of their usual habit of constant chatter about nothing and everything (normal brothers' talk). It annoyed Connor to no end especially that Murphy didn't seem to be at all irritated. Something fishy was going on here and the blond felt obligated and determined to get to the bottom of it…at some other time when Murphy didn't seem to be so irked by something.

"Let's go," Connor muttered at length (fully dressed and liking it). He was surprised when his brother smiled at him. Then, he was even more so when he reached for his rosary on the nail by the door and Murphy did not. "Hey wait a minute!"

"What?" Murphy didn't even notice, hand already on the door knob.

Picking his own rosary from the nail, Connor grabbed the other—the longer of the two—from the nail beside it. This was one eerie, strange difference that he wouldn't stand for because Murphy had no right to get mad about it. "Who are ya an' what did ya do with me brother? Since when d'ya ferget ta wear yer rosary?"

"Rosary?" The quizzical reaction was the last thing Connor had expected; and after that, Murphy made a face like he'd messed up royally. Under his breath, he muttered something that sounded like a curse in some other language that Connor didn't recognize (but that didn't make sense because both he and Murphy were fluent in the same seven languages). "I can't…"

"What can't ya do?"

Without apparent cause, Murphy gripped his brother's shoulder and drove his knee into his stomach. As he doubled over, Connor released his grip on one line of beads and felt himself pushed backwards off balance. The force of the floor against his back knocked his breath out of his lungs; he couldn't gain that air again because something very tight wrapped around his throat—almost like coiled constrictor. A knee on either side of Connor's hips, whatever it was that was masquerading as Murphy tightened his throttling grip so much that the man couldn't breathe.

"_**Quizzical, foolish man**_," that voice was not the familiar Irish brogue that usually graced this man's tongue. A harsh rasp hid cleverly behind a low, guttural growling that had twisted into the English Language accented with something that bordered on demonic. "_**Open your eyes and see what I am**_."

Connor knew his brother's strength well, and this was beyond what Murphy was capable of. Murphy would never hurt him—that he could count on. Whatever this was (and it definitely _wasn't_ his 

twin), its voice forced a violent chill through every part of the Irishman's being. Even as he reached up to pull and struggle against the hands at his throat, he was shaking. "Stop!" he'd tried to say on whatever breath he could force out of a tight trachea.

At first, he'd forgotten that his fingers were still tangled in a string of holy beads—the longer of the two rosaries, meaning that it belong to Murphy—so his attack was unintentional no matter how effective. As soon as those beads hit the skin on Murphy's arm, that hand let go of its current occupation and the "whatever it was" let out a loud curse. Always being quick to react, Connor took advantage of what he didn't quite register as a weakness yet. He reached up and pressed the rosary against his brother's face.

It comes at moments like these the human thought process immediately attempts to put a label on the threat, to better understand and thus give the human some sort of peace of mind. As a vicious heat met Connor's fingers and the flesh of the other's face began to actually sizzle and burn at contact with the holy object, the only conclusion that this devout Irish Catholic man could come to was "demon." Then he registered the horror of what that meant made the sight of _Murphy's_ face twisting in pain as he backed off to get away from this sanctified object. The sound of _Murphy's_ cry of agony as he fell to the side, clawing at his own façade to as that burning, searing flesh brought out the human.

The poor, possessed man screamed mostly in this unimaginable terror of not knowing what was happening to him. "Get it off! _GET IT OFF!!_" he cried, writhing against some unseen force. "Oh _GOD,_ make it stop!"

Immediately, Connor was back on his feet, forgetting the pain in his throat as his lungs automatically worked harder to replenish the air he needed. He grabbed the other rosary and put it around his neck before moving as quickly as possible to his brother's side. "Murphy," he said, sinking to his knees and touching the other's shoulder, "what's…what's happenin'?"

"I don'…" Wrapping his arms around his chest, the dark-haired Irishman buckled in on himself a bit as that burning hellfire seeped into his chest trying to rip through his rib cage and out into the room. "I don' know…" (his voice had lowered to a whimper) "…it hurts, Conn…hurts…real bad."

"_**Shut up!**_" That scratch snake-hiss was back, seeming like it didn't even come from Murphy at all. That pale right arm (the one with tattoos that matched his brother's) shot out and gripped Connor's shirt, the green, inked work _aéquitas_ sunk into the fabric in its place on that back of Murphy's index finger. "_**It hurts more when you struggle!**_"

Murphy's left hand grasped his own dark hair, desperately shaking his head as if it would remedy him of this malicious migraine. "Get out of my head," he whined, a high-pitched plea that seemed almost as though the man were on the verge of tears, "leave me alone, get out! Get _out_!"

Now that all the attention wasn't on Connor, the blond had the time and opportunity to do something about this mess. He swiftly grabbed hold of both of his twin's wrists and brought them together so that he could bind them with the beads of Murphy's own rosary. Another loud shriek rose in the air as a mixture of both the demon's and Murphy's in a horrifying harmony. The polished, wooden ovals sunk deep into Murphy's flesh, making the area around them flush a deep red and burn.

It obviously hurt the possessor more than the possessed, but the sight and sound of Murphy struggling and crying in some sort of agonizing torment had Connor almost in tears. He hesitated before reaching out and pulling his brother against him, half to comfort him but also to prevent him thrashing so much and eventually getting loose. "Murph…Murphy," he cooed quietly, stroking his face, "Fight it, brother…you're strong. Hell can't have yer soul, an' the Devil himself can come up here an' try ta pry ya away from me, but I won't ever let go. He can't have ya."

The flush and heat on Murphy's face could have easily been mistaken as a fever, and Connor rather wished it was that instead of the reality (as much as he loathed the thought of his brother being ill). Then the shivering could be interpreted as some sort of chill, but the constant muttering to himself with two different voices—"Get out" … "_**No**_"—couldn't be anything else but crazy or possessed.

After maybe five whole minutes of just sitting there on the floor with his brother pressed against him, Connor started to lose hope that this would ever reach and end. He looked down at the rosary beads that were now covered in blood from where they had burned through poor Murphy's skin and he winced. "Murphy?" he inquired, noticing a sudden quiet from the other's voice. "Murph!?"

Murphy was taking deep breaths and wringing his fingers, but he said nothing. An eerie calm had fallen on him and he wasn't sure if it felt like a weight being lifted from him or tossed onto him. His eyes stayed closed mostly because he felt that he lacked the strength for even the simple task of opening them. Listening, he could hear Connor talk to him, try to get him to respond, but he either didn't want to or couldn't. Finally, the desperation in his twin's voice was too much. Moving only slightly, he leaned his head against Connor's shoulder and tried to slowly slip his hands free from their holy bond. "Just hold me, yeah?" he muttered.

_**The End**_

* * *

Nicholas: Heh, I wrote this for my English class...It's due tomorrow and I just finished it today. Took me forever to get it just right, so I hope you likes it.

Disclaimer: The characters Connor and Murphy MacManus are not of my creation. They are borrowed from Franchise Pictures and Troy Duffy (director/writer of "The Boondock Saints"). I make to claim to having created these fictional men, but the storyline around them in the preceding is all my own.

Rating: T...dark themes including demonic possession...horror...violence...


End file.
